


An Understanding

by Mnesarete



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnesarete/pseuds/Mnesarete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aramis presses her against the cool wall of her home, lets his hands tangle in her hair as she pulls him close, his mouth hot against her lips, her jaw, her neck. They kiss with slow urgency and do not dare to risk losing themselves in the moment.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Understanding

It always starts the same way; a near-empty house, cold ash in the fireplace, plates stacked neatly in a cupboard, and d’Artagnan’s low, steady breathing in the next room. Constance listens for a while, wide awake in her bed, envious of his ability to just drop out of the world. She has never been able to do that, not even when her life was sedentary and safe. _Safer_.

Her hands twist in the sheets as she stares out of her window; a blood moon looming red-orange over the houses, its girth, its colour, an unreal vision, an errant splash of paint against the blue black canvas of the sky. One day, she will have a dress that colour, she thinks, and she will dance in it until the sun comes up.

Something rattles against her shutters, an interruption, if not perhaps a wholly unexpected one. It is almost a routine now they have, and Constance does not hurry out of the warmth of her bed, does not tense with fear like she might have done once. The stone at her window is merely an alert, and only when she is ready does she slip a robe over her shoulders, light a small candle, and make her way to her front door.

He is waiting for her, as she knew he would be; hat in hand and a small smile that almost reaches his eyes flickering over the edges of his mouth. “Feels rather illicit, doesn’t it?”

“Shouldn’t it?” Constance steps aside, lets the man in. A cloud of spice and sweat follows him, swirling darkly through every corner of the small room. She breathes deep, not caring if he notices.

“I missed you,” Aramis says, setting his hat upon the table. His voice is low, conscious of the presence above them both, and he leans in to whisper into her ear; his breath on her cheek sends warmth arcing through her body and she rests a hand against the leather at his hip. “Tell me you missed me.”

“Perhaps,” Constance replies, moving her leg to press against his. “Perhaps a little.”

D’Artagnan, she imagines, has imagined, does not kiss like this.

Aramis presses her against the cool wall of her home, lets his hands tangle in her hair as she pulls him close, his mouth hot against her lips, her jaw, her neck. They kiss with slow urgency and do not dare to risk losing themselves in the moment.

“Wait,” she says at last, breaking away. Their bodies still, but whatever it was that creaked upon a stair, it was not a step. She can feel, not see, the question in his eyes, tastes it in the brush of her lips against his as she continues. “I heard something. What if he comes downstairs?”

“He is not your lover,” Aramis says, but half-heartedly. Constance knows that he loves the young man as much as she does, more perhaps; his words are only in part meant for her, and for all that she will not see d’Artagnan suffer, her heart catches guiltily over the tiniest flash of hurt that underscores them. She kisses Aramis again, and draws back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but she shakes her head, trails a finger over the buckle of his belt.

“Nothing,” she replies. His hand flattens over hers against the brass. “Truly, nothing.”

He doesn’t believe her, she can read that well enough too, but he trusts her and she knows that he will not press the issue. If she is honest with herself, it is as thrilling a thing as his touch, his faith, his faith in _her_. Through another kiss, she tugs at his belt, and unclasps it, nimble and insistent; they shed layers of their lives, wrapped up with fervent, ardent caresses. Together, they stumble backwards into another room, pausing only in the careful stillness of a door closing in silence.

He does not touch her with reverence, or apology, untying the laces of her bodice with one hand, as the other cups her jaw, thumb pressing gently into her lower lip; he skates over the tops of her breasts with his fingertips, and she feels the curve of a smile in the scrape of his beard against the soft skin there as he moves, mouthing with feather-soft deliberation, tongue darting to curl over her nipple. Her tongue flickers to wet her lips, warmth spikes through her at a light touch of teeth, and her blouse drops, discarded to the floor. Every callous of sword and gun is a touchpoint of familiarity and desire.

She is never naked, not totally, when they meet; there’s a defence in the gathering of an underskirt about her waist, that he has not pressed, and she does not let go. His fingers wrap themselves  in the fabric now, pushing it up towards her waist, as she sits back upon a chair, legs spread. Even in the darkness, she does not dare close her eyes, stares across towards a doorway she cannot quite see, even as she shifts, urges him on with small shivers and half-suppressed moans; only when he stills, leans the side of his head against her thigh, does she look down at him.

“I’m with you,” she whispers into the room she cannot see, and brushes her fingernail across his temple. Aramis leans into her, just slightly, breath warm against her sex as he replies with a soft chuckle and an answering stroke of his hand against her hip.

“For as long as you want to be,” he says.

He is gentle as he moves against her, fingers, lips, tongue; lazy trails against the outer edges of her lips. Her husband has never touched her like this. Something twists in deep inside her as his tongue flattens, presses between her folds. Her hand rests against his hair, and it is all she can do to stop herself from rising, seeking contact ever deeper. The heat inside her is stirring, roiling, and when he stops, lays kisses across the tops of her inner thighs, she is forced to bite hard on her lower lip, stifling the moan of protest that escapes her. This is not the first time they have done this here, in the silence, in the dark; in truth, she knows, though she will not admit it, there is something in this quiet that arouses her, a secret that is hers to keep alone. She wonders, sometimes, what she is to Aramis; she wonders if he knows, can know, all the things she loves him for.

Her breath comes faster now, as he changes position, knees sliding on the wooden floor; the rhythm of his movements do not change, though one hand nudges her backwards, as the other slips between her legs, spreading her open. His tongue flicks against her nub, and when he takes it in his mouth, sucking gently, her whole body shudders with the flame of it. Her hips buck, just slightly against his face, and his fingers push further inside her, curling and rocking, a tormenting rhythm that she does not know how she will do without, when this play of theirs comes to its inevitable close.

When she comes, she comes with a silent scream upon her lips and her knees drawing together, firm against Aramis’ side. Her ankles rest against his breeches, and they are still for a moment, just for a moment, before he rises, arms sliding back behind her; she can taste herself on him when she kisses him now, heavy and hard. Her eyelids flutter close as she wraps herself around him, and when they break apart, she does not open them. His forehead rests against hers.

This time, the sound of a foot upon stair is unmistakeable.

“One day, this will have to end,” she says. Aramis’ arms tighten, just slightly, around her, almost imperceptible; but her skin is on fire, every sensation magnified a hundredfold. Impulsively, she leans to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“But not tonight?”

“Not tonight,” she agrees, pulling him close again.


End file.
